Man on a Leash
by littlespider
Summary: He should have been expecting it, really, because there was no way that the CIA would let as valuable an asset as Napoleon Solo go without a fight. [AU/Headcanon follow up to "Pulse"]
1. Chapter 1

Rewatched The Man From U.N.C.L.E. the other day and couldn't resist. This kind of is in the same slight AU/headcanon as my previous MFU fic "Pulse," but you can also read it by itself. More chapters to come!

Disclaimer: MFU is not mine.

* * *

Barely a week after the Vinciguerra Affair and the creation of U.N.C.L.E, Napoleon received a visit from his handler. He should have been expecting it, really, because there was no way that the CIA would let as valuable an asset as Napoleon Solo go without a fight.

After Rome, the newly formed team from U.N.C.L.E. retired to a relatively small town in the Italian countryside to recuperate before heading off to Turkey. Napoleon developed a distinct fondness for the quaint town market and had been returning from a stroll when he was grabbed in a back alley. Two bulky men suddenly had their arms on his biceps and were guiding him through the back door of a quiet building. Napoleon knew better than to struggle; no one would come looking for him anyways.

Even if Napoleon was taken by surprise by the muscle, he was prepared for Sanders' permanent frown when his eyes finally adjusted to the dim lighting. He'd known the men were American the second they had grabbed him; it was the smell of cheap American cigarettes that gave them away. The CIA handler was sitting before an old wooden table, wearing that same stupid charcoal hat as always. Napoleon already had a quip about the man's questionable fashion sense ready when Sanders nodded and the muscle holding onto Solo slammed his head down onto the table without warning.

Despite himself, Napoleon let out a grunt of surprise. _What the hell? The mission had been a success hadn't-_

A mean right hook to his chest jumbled his thoughts and the following hit to his face didn't really help. Still anchored in place by one of the massive men, Napoleon could do little more than brace himself as the other muscle used the thief-turned-operative as a punching bag. He felt something wet at his hairline, tasted copper in his mouth and hoped he hadn't bitten his tongue.

Three minutes in, Sanders stood up and cleared his throat. "Alright, boys, that's enough."

As his handler stepped closer, Napoleon did his best to pull himself together. But his ribs burned when he breathed, there were dark spots dancing across his vision, and there was nothing graceful about the way he spit a glob of blood-tinged saliva out onto the floor. All the same, he raised his eyes to look at Sanders straight on.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Napoleon coughed out, fumbling for a nonchalant tone and failing miserably as more blood dribbled down his chin.

"That's for your little stunt." Sanders grumbled, sliding his hands into his pockets with an infuriatingly casual air. "If you think real hard I'm sure you'll know which one I'm talking about."

Despite the fact that he was obviously at a disadvantage, Napoleon couldn't resist the urge to run his mouth. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, what with the foiled terrorist plot and all. Mission accomplished, as far as I see it."

Sanders eyes narrowed dangerously. "The disk, Solo. You were supposed to bring the disk to us, not destroy the damn thing!"

Ah, he should have known that would have come back to bite him in the ass. Napoleon shrugged as best as he could while still restrained. "That wasn't completely up to me. It was hard enough dealing with that giant Russian before we added Waverly-"

 _Crack_. Solo's head snapped to the side under the force of a stinging slap and the operative felt his heart drop. Sanders was really, _really_ mad if he was actually getting his own hands dirty. The older man's mottled face contorted under a dark scowl. "Don't give me that bullshit! You honestly expect me to believe that Soviet robot would have the balls to burn the disk? I don't think so. It's a damn cock-bull plan that has your stink all over it, Solo."

Well, what was he supposed to say to that? Napoleon merely glared at the floor and worked at the split in his lip with his tongue.

"Hey, I'm talking to ya." Sanders stepped even closer and gripped Solo's chin, forcing the younger man to look him in the eyes. "The higher ups think it'll be good to have you on this… U.N.C.L.E. task force for now. Good to get close to the Soviets and all that shit. But don't you forget you still report to me, your life is still in my hands."

Sanders released Napoleon's chin and, to his relief, the big muscle behind him stepped back as well. As Sanders followed his brawn out the small door, he threw one last look back at Napoleon. "One more stunt like that and going back to prison will be the least of your worries."

Napoleon waited a full ten minutes for Sanders and his goons to leave the area before exiting the building himself. As we walked, he dabbed at his split lip with a now ruined handkerchief. And that wasn't the only thing saturated with blood. Giving himself the once over, Solo found a large red spot marring the breast of his cool grey of his suit and sighed heavily. He highly doubted they would find cleaners with the skill to remove blood stains in a town this small. Pity, it was one of his favorite suits.

Not for the first time in his life Napoleon Solo wished Sanders and all the CIA higher ups a slow and painful death. He never forgot his freedom was only as long as their leash, but did they have to yank it so viciously? Napoleon breathed in deeply and then out through his nose, counting slowly to ten. He had hoped to get a cappuccino before heading back to their safe house, but he'd have to abort, given that he looked like he'd gone a few rounds with a brick wall.

He didn't want to give the old market women anything more gossip about that "scandalous foreign threesome" if he could help it.


	2. Chapter 2

Illya Kuryakin was enjoying the break. The KGB wasn't particularly keen on giving their agents down time, so when Waverly informed the new U.N.C.L.E. team that they were to have one week of enforced leave, Illya wasn't exactly sure what his reaction was supposed to be. The first day or so he'd woken up, worked out, eaten, and felt generally lazy and useless, but now that the week was almost up he'd really come to appreciate the breather.

And the silence… Well, it really was rather beautiful. After spending weeks with the ever-talkative Solo and fidgety Gaby, Illya was glad for the space and for the time alone. The villa Waverly had set them up in had three separate bedrooms with attached bathrooms, two sitting rooms, both a formal and informal dining room, and a fully equipped kitchen. Quite frankly, it was more space than Illya knew what to do with.

According to his last communication with Waverly, the British agent had gathered almost all the intel they needed for their next mission in Turkey, which meant that their week of relaxation and recuperation was almost up. But for now, Illya was in the middle of a rather intense game of chess, trying to outplay himself. Gaby was out reading in the garden and Solo-

"What the hell, Napoleon!"

Solo, it seemed, was getting into trouble again. Illya frowned and raised his head just as the agent in question entered through the set of french doors, his movements awkwardly stiff and his face an array of bruises. His bottom lip was split and bleeding and there was blood on his suit. Illya glanced down at his father's watch.

One hour. The American had only been gone for one hour. Illya supposed they should be glad the damage wasn't worse.

With a sigh, Illya leaned back from the chess board and stood, cracking his neck with a slight tilt of his head. "What did you do this time, Cowboy?"

"What makes you say I did something wrong?" Napoleon asked, his usually playful tone sharp as he went out of his way to walk around Illya.

"Because you always do." Gaby answered shortly, entering after Napoleon and removing her large sunglasses. "Really, must you have a babysitter at every moment?"

Napoleon grumbled quietly as he filled himself a glass full of ice from their bar cart and, instead of reaching for his favorite scotch, lifted the glass to press it against his swelling forehead. "Glad to know you both think so highly of me."

Something about the American's tone of voice bothered Illya, so he stepped a bit closer, arms crossing over his chest. "What, you say you were out and got jumped? Randomly?"

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say because Napoleon glared up at Illya before declaring he was going to wash up and all but storming out of the room.

* * *

Napoleon didn't join them for dinner that night. Gaby declared he could sulk all he wanted, but Illya was actually a bit concerned. Yes, Solo was normally a magnet for trouble, but the American usually laughed it off with the same cockiness that colored every one of his actions. For Napoleon to seem so put off by a fight was enough to catch Illya's attention.

So after dinner he excused himself, leaving Gaby to enjoy the pool on her own, and made the trek upstairs to Napoleon's suite. Illya hesitated only briefly outside the door before knocking against the fine wood. "Cowboy?"

Illya wasn't quite sure what he'd been expecting, but certainly some kind of answer. He tried again. "Napol-"

The door swung open before he could get the name out and found the man in question frowning at him from around a serious black eye. "What is it, Kuryakin?"

No nicknames, then. Illya didn't know if he should take that as a bad sign. "Can I come in?"

After a momentary pause, Napoleon nodded, stepped aside, and then closed the door after his Russian partner. Once inside the room, Illya got a better look at the American. His hair was wet and a single curl fell across his bruised forehead, making him appear much younger than usual. Napoleon was dressed only in silk pajama trousers and a matching robe and Illya couldn't help but notice the long bandage wound around his partner's middle.

Illya frowned. "You hurt your ribs?"

Napoleon looked away. "I'm fine, Peril."

"I will judge that," Illya replied, stepping closer. "Let me see."

Napoleon matched his step forward with a step back, maintaining the distance between them. "Shouldn't you be down frolicking with Gaby? Or maybe Russians don't frolick."

Illya was not even remotely thrown by Napoleon's attempts at redirection. "Let me see, Cowboy."

Before Napoleon could protest further, Illya had his hands on the shorter man's shoulders and forced him into a sit on the ottoman at the end of the massive bed. Napoleon gave a rather undignified curse as Illya roughly shoved the robe off of the American's shoulders, leaving it to pool around him on the seat.

"Going to take advantage of me, Peril?" Napoleon asked somewhat breathlessly, gritting his teeth as Illya bent to check his ribs. He jumped slightly and swore again when the Russian pressed down rather hard on the tenderest part of his torso.

"One rib, maybe bruised, maybe cracked," Illya reported, testing the tightness of the bandage. He didn't know how Napoleon had managed on his own, but the wrap was surprisingly tight and would do an adequate job of holding the other's ribs in place as they healed. "Nicely done, Cowboy. I'm almost impressed."

Despite the compliment, Napoleon grumbled a reply. "I told you I can take care of myself. Now will you let me up?"

 _Save some energy and stop pretending you care because, like I said, I can take care of myself._

Illya had yet to forget Solo's words on the aircraft carrier after Rome and he still didn't understand why they had bothered him so much. It wasn't that he cared for Solo, not like he cared for Gaby or his mother. They were just partners and not even partners by choice. But there was something about the American that got under Illya's skin, something that had left Illya frantic to save Napoleon from Rudi and something that now had the Russian shaking his head.

"No. Let me check your head."

"Kuryakin…" Napoleon's voice had an edge to it, like his patience was wearing thin.

"Last week you died, Solo," Illya said flatly, already probing the swelling around the American's barely healed head injury. "And almost cracked your skull. I want to check you didn't undo the medic's work with your mess tonight."

"Wasn't my fault," Napoleon growled. All the same, he stilled and let Illya continue his examination. It turns out he had no need to worry. The skin around Napoleon's old cut, although bruised and swelling, was somehow still intact and the other bruises on his face appeared to be just that. The American winced as Illya prodded at his black eye, but luckily didn't appear to have fractured his cheekbone.

"Got lucky this time, Cowboy." Illya said, standing up and giving Napoleon space to do the same. "Do I need to know what happened?"

The shuttered expression that came over Napoleon's face told Illya that yes, in fact, he did need to know, but the American simply shook his head. "It's nothing to worry about, Peril."

Looking down at the American, who seemed somehow smaller and defeated in the wake of the night's events, Illya wasn't so sure.


End file.
